


What's worse than giggling while our flats burn down?

by WayWorseThanScottish



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, my flat's on fire AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-14 07:16:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4555593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WayWorseThanScottish/pseuds/WayWorseThanScottish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Our flats are on fire and we're standing outside in our jammies and hello you are really attractive AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's worse than giggling while our flats burn down?

**Author's Note:**

> I found this fic in my files and realized that I'd never posted it, so here you go!

God, John really hated his flat. It wasn’t enough that it smelled like rotten plaster, no. There was this stupid little punk on the floor below him that wouldn’t stop pulling the damn fire alarm.

Now, usually John wasn’t even home when the alarm was pulled; after getting off duty John had a penchant for meandering around London. He observed the life around him, watched as children laughed and parents muttered to each other and lover’s kissed. It was strange though, he felt almost dissociated from it all, like he wasn’t even human. Everything just seemed unimportant when there were people out there dying in a desert that he couldn’t save.

But damn it all, did that punk have to pull the alarm in the middle of the night? It was bad enough John’s sleep was ripe with nightmares, but to top it all off with a midnight exposé?

“Fire! Oh God, Sherlock again?” he heard the voice of Mrs Dodge call out.

So there was actually a fire this time? Fuck.

With the energy of a man much younger than himself, John jumped out of bed and quickly marched out of his flat, not even sparing a glance to his laptop or cane. His leg twinged slightly, and he hoped to God it would hold out on him at least until he got outside.

The hallway was filled with people milling about, panicking and collecting belongings, pets and children. He quickly cut through the crowd and jogged down the stairwell. God, next flat he’d make sure to be on the ground floor.

When he got outside, he found a small crowd of residents in their pajamas staring at the building and gossiping to each other.

“Dear, are you okay?” he heard his favourite neighbour say. It was old Mrs. Daphne, who fretted over him constantly. She grabbed his shoulder and looked at him worriedly. “I think the fire is on our floor, did you manage to get anything out?”

John smiled and patted the old lady’s arm. “I’m afraid not, it’s okay though, at least we’re safe.”

“Quite, and that’s what’s important, isn’t it dear?” she said almost to herself, walking away.

It was a bit chilly out and John suddenly regretted his choice of sleepwear. A ratty vest, pants and socks currently made up his outfit. Trying to get out of the group of people milling about, John bumped into someone.

“Oh, sorry, wasn’t looking where I was going,” he said apologetically, not even looking up. God damn it, he just wanted to get out of this herd. His limp was finally making itself noticed, to boot.

“Hm?” an impossibly deep voice rumbled. John turned around to come face to face with a rather attractive looking man. The man was typing on his phone, the glow of the screen illuminating his face, making a rather ethereal image. All of a sudden he felt embarrassed, walking around in only pants and a vest. Then again, what the man was wearing wasn’t much of an improvement, with a dirty blue housecoat covering… only pants? At least, John hoped he was wearing pants.

“Right, I’ll just-“ John cleared his throat. “Um, yeah, sorry. My name’s John Watson.” He tried not to look too hopeful as he held out his hand.

The stranger raised his eyes from his phone, _god_ of course they were a piercing grey blue.

- _Rather formal considering the circumstances, medium to small build, well developed muscles, excellent posture, cares about the wellbeing of others, army? No, Doctor perhaps. Rather calm in a panicked situation, caring for others. Army doctor then? Strange tan- only on the hands and above where a collar would be. Conclusion, Afghanistan or Iraq, only recently discharged, most likely honourably.-_

He held out a hand. “Sherlock Holmes. Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John furrowed his brows. “Afghanistan, wait, how did you- never mind, _you’re_ Sherlock? _You’re_ the arse that caused this whole thing?” Jesus, could he not catch a break? Did the attractive man (barely wearing any clothes- _focus Watson)_ have to be the arsonist? 

“Mm, yes, well, you needed to get a new flat anyway, right? In fact I have the perfect one in mind, it’s on 221B Baker Street, lovely old landlady who owes me a favour… are you interested?” God, the man wasn’t even looking at him. Those otherworldly blue eyes had travelled down to the damn phone again.

“You mean a flat-share? With you? Are you crazy?” John’s eyes were nearly bugging out.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Strange how your mind automatically went to flat-sharing… still, I think we know enough about each other to live together, don’t you think?” He placed his phone into his pocket, letting the housecoat slip a bit (yeah, no, he _wasn’t_ wearing any pants…).

“What do you mean, we’ve only just met!” John was flabbergasted; who was this Sherlock anyway? And how did he know so much?

“Hm, well I know you’ve just come back from Afghanistan and you left with an honourable discharge. You’ve got a psychosomatic limp, you’re very kind to old ladies and you have no immediate family or friends willing to give you a room to stay in. I think that’s enough to be going on, don’t you?” Sherlock winked.

“How did you even..?” John trailed off. “I don’t even know anything about you.”

“Well, you know I’m an arsonist,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Not really encouraging, I have to say.” John looked back at the building. The fire was probably out by now, but there was still a bit of smoke coming out of one of the windows.

Sherlock’s phone rang. “Hello-no, well. Really Lestrade, are you so dull? There’s just been a fire at my flat- no, of course, I’m fine, was the ladder green? Right, okay. I’ll be right there.”

John raised his eyebrows, his curiosity piqued. “Where are you off to, then?”

“Crime scene,” Sherlock said with relish, a manic grin on his face. “You’ve been in the war…” he said suddenly, eyeing John over.

“…Yes?”

“Seen a lot of blood?”

“Yes, loads. Enough to last a lifetime,” he answered tiredly. It was true, he had seen too much.

Sherlock nodded slightly. “Want to see more?”

“Oh god, yes,” John exhaled excitedly. He missed the adrenaline rush of the battlefield. “Wait, hold on. I’m only wearing pants!”

Sherlock and John looked at each other for a minute, then John cracked a grin. The two burst out giggling.

“We can’t giggle here! It’ll make us look suspicious, giggling while our flats are burning down!” John hissed through peals of laughter.

“Sneak in through the service elevator to grab some clothes from your flat,” Sherlock suggested, after the laughter died down (the elderly ladies glaring at them did nothing to help their seriousness). “They should have those turned back on by now.” He nodded then went back to typing on his phone. He paused for a moment and looked down at himself. “On second thought, I think I’ll join you,” he smiled softly at John. “I seem to be… less than presentable at the moment as well.”

John snorted. “Alright, you, come on, we’d better hurry.”

“What’s the point? It’s not like the dead are going to up and run away,” Sherlock said sarcastically, much to the concern of the people surrounding them.

**

 

They met up in the lobby a dozen minutes later. John had casually put his gun in the back of his jeans, his bomber jacket covering the bulge adequately. Not that he thought he’d be in danger, but he always felt safer with it closer to him.

Sherlock came bounding down the stairs, his large black coat fanning out behind him dramatically. “Come along, John, no time to wait, there are dead bodies to be examined!”

They sat in amicable silence in the taxi, John eyeing Sherlock every now and then, wondering if this was all a dream. It was quite a strange and unexpected dream if it was.

“So how’d you figure out I was in Afghanistan?”

Sherlock looked out the window, seemingly distracted. For a moment, John thought he hadn’t heard him, then Sherlock began to speak. “Your posture spoke military, and you were very calm in front of a crowd of distressed people. You have a tan line on your neck and your wrists, obviously not from vacation. Where have we recently shipped off soldiers? Afghanistan and Iraq,” Sherlock ran through his stream of logic quickly, shyly, in a voice that seemed wary.

“That’s brilliant!” John gushed.

“Really?”

“Yeah, that was phenomenal!”

Sherlock looked over to check that John was serious. “You think so?”

“Absolutely fantastic. You’re a proper genius!”

“Well, it was only-”

“How did you do that? Have you always been able to?” John asked curiously.

Sherlock shrugged meekly. “My brother and I, well, when we were younger—”

“And you solve crimes, too! You’re like a superhero!”

Sherlock blushed. “I wouldn’t really…”

“Amazing,” John said, still in awe.

“That’s not what most people say.”

“What do most people say?”

“Piss off.”

John snorted. “People must be idiots.”

Sherlock truly smiled at John. “You have no idea.” They were leaning in to each other, quite closely now, having inched forwards gradually throughout the conversation. John blushed and looked down.

“So you’re like a detective, yeah? Why do you need me?” he asked, leaning away.

Sherlock was leaning forward even more, then aborted the movement after John leaned back. “Well, you brought your gun, so that’s always useful. And you’re a doctor. Also quite useful.”

“Oh?”

“And you’re not boring.”

“Thanks.” John said sarcastically.

“That was a compliment.”

Silence pervaded the taxi cab again. John looked out of the window and casually placed his hand on the middle seat, as a peace offering. Sherlock’s hand soon joined his, accidentally-on-purpose touching.

“How’d you know I have a gun?”

“How you’re holding yourself. Also you’ve just come back from a war and I told you we’re visiting a crime scene. It’d be idiotic if you _didn’t_ bring your gun.”

“Ah.”

“Quite.”

Their hands were still touching.

Finally, _finally,_ the cab stopped and Sherlock got out. John was about to get out too, until Sherlock spun around and leaned down, resulting in their noses getting knocked together.

“Oh-”

“—Sorry-”

“No, it’s just--”

They both stood up. John blushed as Sherlock looked away, smiling slightly.

“Should we just—” John looked towards the police cars.

“Yes, I think so,” Sherlock answered, their shoulders bumping each other as they made their way to the crime scene.

“Freak,” a police officer greeted.

John bristled. “Sorry, what did you say? Didn’t quite catch that?”

She looked over at him. “Who’re you? You the freak’s new pet?”

John cocked his head. “Why would you care? He’s the brains of the operation, anyway, so I guess your job is… what, guard dog?”

She gaped at him. “Why you--”

“Ah, Sally, always a pleasure, how was Anderson’s last night? Still adulterous? That must be nice,” Sherlock said in a not-so-pleasant tone.

Sally fumed and stomped off. “She seemed nice,” John remarked casually.

Sherlock snorted. “Indeed.”

“Mmm, this is gonna bug me if I don’t do it now,” John said.

“Oh?”

And so John kissed him. Because it seemed like the thing to do. And Sherlock apparently was fine with it, considering how enthusiastic he was participating.

They parted, but only because they needed to breathe. “If giggling was bad while our flats burned down, surely snogging at a crime scene is worse?” Sherlock said between pants.

John smirked. “Damn right,” he said, then caught Sherlock’s eye and smiled widely.


End file.
